Daffodils
by drinktea
Summary: Cloud, eight years old, halfpaints a fence and nearly crushes a mother's daffodils. He avoids the unavoidable. CloTi. One-shot.


_Disclaimer: FFVII does not belong to me. Whatta shame._

Sakura-Angel: If you by chance spot some _slight_ inaccuracy, please leave me to my writer's liberties. I don't have many of them. Warning: italics abuse. If that ain't your cup of tea, get out of the oven. (I know I don't make sense. But I'm trying to concentrate on the French Revolution, so my brain is puddling.) Read on, I hope you enjoy. Comments are very much appreciated.

**Daffodils**

Cloud is in trouble.

He walks his no-good walk down the sidewalk with his hands jammed in his overly large pockets - out of being bored of course, not being ashamed - in the direction of his house.

He's not heading to his house though, _oh no_. He is heading to _Mr. Lockheart's_ house where he'd accidentally smashed _Mr. Lockheart's_ window so he was punished to painting _Mr Lockheart's_ fence. Stupid Mr. Lockheart.

Stupid all the people in this stupid city-- no, town. Why did they have to move? Why couldn't they have just stayed put, in one place, to wait for papa? Why come to this dinkymean_stupid_ town where nobody likes them and never, _ever_ smiles? He wants to see a smile - a real one, a genuine up-to-your-eyes smile - but all he ever gets are smirks or ones that only light up half a face. It's so _so_ hard to smile. Why is that?

"Cloud!" Not happily, angrily.

He blinks to refocus his eyes. "Sir."

"You're trampling Mrs. Lockheart's daffodils." He points a thick, work-bent finger at Cloud's feet, and Cloud jumps back reflexively. He feels guilty for being lost in thought, for trampling his schoolmate's dead mother's flowers.

Everyone knew that sad story.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbles, ashamed.

"She loved daffodils. Daffodils and buttercups," he utters, more to himself than anyone else. Then the realization dawns that he is standing in front of the town's black sheep, releasing the most private and painful of secrets, and he's shocked back to himself again. Stern. But suddenly less scary, somehow, to eight year old Cloud.

"The paint's right there. Paint it well, boy." And he _jolt_turns away.

Cloud doesn't understand adults. Their moods change fast and furious, and they take their frustrations out on things they love, or are supposed to love. They're so... unsensible. Why not channel anger out of something that _deserves_ it?

There's something about Mr. Lockheart though. Something in his stance, his voice, the lines etched out in his face. It softens Cloud a little. He thinks back. Maybe that's why he never smiles, because his wife is dead. And maybe that's why ma never smiles--

But that hurts too much to think about. He wants to go on pretending.

He plunks the can of paint down on the lawn, thumbing the soft bristels of the large brush. Inhalepause_sigh_, and then he pries the lid off with his fighter's fingers and gets to work painting the inside of the fence (_because the inside is what matters_, his mother tells him always, and he thinks it's a good place to start).

He finishes the entire inside of the fence and is relocating the paintcan when he sees a familiar figure coming up the sidewalk. It's Tifa, his classmate, who he knows is coming home from extra piano practise after school, even though he'd never admit that he knows this fact in a million years. He's heard her play through the walls sometimes because detention is right next to the music room, and the sounds she make are graceful, and it's obvious she has natural skill, even to his eight year old ears, even though she is only eight herself.

The truth is, he really sort of likes her. Well, it's sort of obvious, and one _could_ argue that he more than just 'sort of likes her', but he's not going to admit that much either.

There's just something about her that makes him stand up straighter, makes him want to be known. Something about her tells him she'd have the Very Best Smile, if only he could see it (and maybe receive it, he thinks forbiddenly, and lets that thought trail off into a Never, a wish).

"Hello, Cloud," she says, because even though he knows she thinks he's a delinquent, she is first and foremost polite.

"Hi, Tifa," he says casually, and puts his hand up to wave, but realizes he has a paintbrush in it. Why didn't he see that coming? ... And why did he say 'hi'? Should he have said 'hello', like her? Was it too friendly to say 'hi'? Did it breech some sort of code?

She doesn't notice though, and continues up the walk to knock on her door.

He watches as she's let in by her father, then realizes it's weird to stare, and starts sweeping the fence instead of the air.

Ugh, he _knew_ it! He'd messed up with two words. Two! Now she thought he was an idiot and he'd only ever get a 'you're so stupid' frown from her when what he wanted was the Very Best Smile.

There's a _creeeeakthumpthumpthumptaptaptapahem_Cloud?

His paintstroke wavers and his throat clogs up. For once, he's glad his hair gets in his face because that means she can't see him and he can't see her. "Yes?"

And then, "Would you like a snack?"

_Huh?_ he almost says, but manages to instead squeak out a _yeah, that would be nice_.

He looks up, as if in preparation for her to be an illusion and _poof_ out from underneath his nose. What he sees though is her, standing not two feet from him with a humble tray in her hands, a pitcher of milk, glasses, and funny lumpy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies all balancing.

What strikes him the most though is the glass_es_. And the amount of cookies, too generous a helping for one child. Is she eating with him?

"Come on." And she heads towards the green lawn, indicating that they sit.

So they do. (Cloud steps gingerly _over_ the daffodils this time.) She pours milk for them both, fair wrist arching under the weight of the pitcher. He doesn't know anyone his age who acts this... _mature_. She's so calm and sad and courteous. He knows why she's this way, or at least he should, because he's lost someone too. He wants to tell her he's sorry, but he's afraid he'll make her cry.

"Papa says you've done enough, and that you can finish tomorrow," she tells his belt.

"Okay," he says. He trails his fingers through the grass and watches her place the pitcher back on the tray. Everything she does is so certain, so exact. He wishes he was like that.

"Have some milk," she offers.

She's more than someone to like, someone to want to be around. She's someone to admire, to aspire to. Because even though she's so calm and sad and courteous, she's not in denial.

"Thank you," he says almost uncharacteristically, and takes something between a sip and a gulp.

She nods, brown bangs falling in her eyes. Her pale hand rises up to brush them away, and he sees for the first time how long her fingers are, how elegant they make the simplest of actions seem.

And then he spies something, the unmistakeable glint of a scar.

"What happened?" he blurts with childish concern, and points at her. He doesn't make it clear though, what he's talking about, so his face heats up and he corrects himself. "Your scar, I mean."

She glances at it, flashing on the skin between her thumb and index finger, trailing long and thin. She doesn't rub it or cover it like most people do, he notices.

"I scratched myself falling. You remember."

His hand grips his glass tighter at the realization of what she's talking about. His eyes open wide and the blue of them sparks and crackles. His mouth opens to apologizeapologizeapologize.

She reads his mind. "It's not your fault," she says. "Why apologize?" Her eyes are so _honest_. They disarm him completely. They make him believe that she didn't mind it, being dead for seven days.

He smiles at her, weakly, but he knows he'll get stronger. "Thank you."

Her honest eyes blink astonished, and then they warm with the strength of her smile. The Smile he'd wanted for so long.

They sip, and they do not speak, and he tells her with his eyes that he is grateful.

And he knows that when he grows up he will repay her with everything he has.


End file.
